


STARDUST

by LSRichards



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 18:22:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSRichards/pseuds/LSRichards
Summary: You never know when Gabrielle will show up, but sometimes, the stars align. Written for Bogthing for the 2017 VC Gift Exchange.





	STARDUST

She was, as always, unexpected.

He'd been in the attics with the structural engineer brought in from Lyon to assess the damage to the timbers and provide an estimate for their repairs, when, as always, she just walked in.

“Hello, Lestat.”  
“Hello, Mother.”

And she'd waited, patiently, until their bargain was completed, until the measurements and photographs had been taken, until the engineer got back into his car and drove safely away, promising he'd have the initial estimates before Christmas. He turned to her, wondering if he'd get another lecture upon the folly of restoring the castle. But no.

“I need you,” she'd said. “I need your advice, and skill. I have no talent at these things whatsoever.”

“What things, Mother?”

Gabrielle sighed. “Sevraine is having a mid-winter ball, and I,” she shrugged, “need something to wear.”

They regarded one another for long moment.

Lestat set down the metal measuring tape, a wild happiness spreading through him.

“Come with me,” he said.

 

Paris. Paris at Christmas. The City of Lights frosted with snow, glittering with ice, thousands upon thousands of tiny white lights, the golden glow of incandescents and the fairy blue of LEDs, so achingly beautiful and exciting it hurt his heart. It was still early, only six p.m., but darkness comes early in winter.

“It's far too late to have something made,” Lestat said after he'd set her down in the alley behind the Boulevard Haussmann. It would have to be prêt à porter, but where? His own tastes, of course, ran toward the opulent fantasies of Versace and Gaultier, he even, God help him, had an Iris van Herpen in a closet somewhere, and of course he still hadn't forgiven Armani for positively _ruining_ suiting in the 1990's, but for Gabrielle?

She touched his arm.

“I don't want to spend all night,” she said.

“Galeries Lafayette,” he replied.

They exited the alley and there it was, its magnificent Belle Epoque façade transformed into utter magic by millions of tiny colored lights. Eluding mortal detection was by now of course instinctual in both of them, often little more than a matter of an averted gaze or a heavy tread, but honestly, it didn't even matter here. No one, in this wonderland of light and color, was looking at _them._

They crossed, and entered, and the stories soared up above them to the lacey iron-work of the cupola, stars beyond; the golden hoops of the galeries looping around them like so many stationery carousel animals; sparkling, twinkling lights, music, happy people, French perfume, the vast space above their heads filled with floating, glittering ornaments, globes and starbursts and cascades.

“Why want Heaven,” Lestat sighed, “When this is right here?”

“It is pretty, I will give you that,” Gabrielle admitted, smiling in spite of herself.

They went to a boutique he knew on the second floor where they either had a variety of designer prêt à porter on hand or could get it within a few moments from another shop. His favorite salesgirl, alas, had been poached, but a flashed America Express Sapphire ensured prompt deferment. Etienne and Nicole were more than happy to assist.

“My mother has been invited to a winter ball,” he told them. “She will need a….” the moment spun out. “Dress?” he finished.

Six eyes, four mortal, two vampire, turned on Gabrielle, waited.

“Yes.” A huge grin split her son's face, but as he stood behind the mortals the fangs didn't signify. “Oh, get over yourself,” she told him, but she was ruefully smiling as she did.

The parade began. “Winter” meant white, of course, or blue, or silver, and Gabrielle, with her pale skin, blue eyes and blonde hair (even if was tightly wound around a wooden spike) looked ravishing in all three. Lestat gasped approvingly at the silver-sequined Chanel mermaid and the off-the-shoulder, cornflower-lace Givenchy, but Gabrielle, of course, went straight to the monastic white wool Prada.

“Ooh, Mother.” Lestat moaned. “It's a ball, not a fund-raiser.”

“It's pretty,” Gabrielle frowned, petting the angel-soft lambswool.

“On Princess Leia,” Lestat retorted. “Get it, if you want, but you cannot wear wool to a ball. I won't allow it.”

“Fiiiine,” Gabrielle sighed.

And so it went, Lestat bonding with embellishment and exaggeration, Gabrielle with severity and simplicity, until all four reached frustration.

Nicole spoke. “Where,” she asked, “is the ball to take place?”

A beat, and then Lestat said:

“On a private estate. In a grotto. With a waterfall. At night. Though I am sure there will be artificial illumina--”

“Wait.” Etienne interrupted, looking at Nicole.

The girl was staring into space, her chocolate-brown eyes wide. “Wait here,” she said, and exited the store.

She came back a few moments later carrying a white garment bag draped over both hands. She hung it on a tall rack, the zipper toward herself. She pulled the zip, and, in one movement pushed the bag off the hangar and stripped it away, and the ballgown unfurled, ballooned, descended. Lestat was speechless, staring at the scintillating, airy mass.

“What _is_ it?” he whispered.

“Dior,” Nicole replied. “A new fiber. A synthetic filament, spun like silk, but each fiber is triangular in cross-section, so each filament, each thread, acts as a prism, giving the kaleidoscopic effect you see. It is called,” she added, _“aurora borealis.”_

“Try it on,” Lestat breathed to Gabrielle. “Try it on, try it on, try it on.”

She did so, emerging from the dressing room in a cloud of sparking, living silver-white chased with fugitive blue-pink, an angel clothed in starlight. She stepped up onto a carpeted box, and Nicole, having come to know her taste, handed her a short, tailored, Escada jacket of white satin, lightly embellished at collar and cuffs with transparent sequins. Gabrielle accepted it, put it on, and then, with an impish smile, pulled the hairpin from her chignon, let her hair fall free, completing the vision.

“How much?” Lestat asked, unable to take his eyes off the earthbound angel standing before him.

“Forty thousand franks,” Nicole replied. “The jacket is ten.”

Lestat raised his eyebrows at Gabrielle. Well?

Gabrielle smiled. “Yes,” she said.

All four of them were startled by the burst of applause and cheering and spun to see the spectators outside the shop windows, the Parisians who had seen her through the glass and had stopped in their tracks, mesmerized. They cheered and applauded and then dispersed, back into their own affairs.

“Sevraine is going to love it,” Lestat said, paying as Nicole filled out the alterations order to have the silk bodice taken in.

“Yes,” Gabrielle replied. “I think she will.”

“I am happy for you, you know.”

“I do know. But thank you, my son.”

Etienne handed Lestat his card and the receipts. He gave the alterations slip to Gabrielle, and kept the rest.

Then they were outside, back in the alley, because he knew he could not keep her any longer. He kissed her, in the starlight.

“Joyeux noël, Mère,” he said.

“Joyeux noël, Lestat,” she replied, and then she was gone.


End file.
